The Secret Keepers
by rhombus
Summary: Oliver wasn't the only one who could hold things back. Kyle kept his own secrets. Kyle/Oliver college fic. Bittersweet.


**The Secret-Keepers**

Oliver wasn't the only one who could hold things back. Kyle kept his own secrets.

For instance, Oliver had no idea that Kyle was a light sleeper. His consciousness rose with the sun, and any small shift in the atmosphere would wake his senses: the rustle of sheets against skin; the displacement of weight on the mattress; an exhalation of breath; the creak of floorboards; heavy shoes thudding toward the door.

He lay still each morning, cataloging the noises, keeping mental notes of how long it would take Oliver to dress, depending on how much he had had to drink the night before. The socks, especially, could be a struggle.

Kyle would crack open an eye and simply observe. He liked watching Oliver when he didn't know he was being watched. He imagined it gave him a glimpse of the true man, the one who didn't hide things—from the world and from him. It was enlightening.

But Kyle knew it was also a form of self-torture: the waiting; the dread. What would Oliver choose to do—this true-self Oliver? Kyle hadn't deciphered the pattern quite yet. There was nothing to indicate which morning-observations would end too soon and which would linger.

It was stifling, living half a life behind closed doors. Always under the covers, in the darkness, suffocating, he waited, always waited, for what new torture he could throw at himself. There was freedom, he knew, on the other side of the door, if only he could throw it open, pull himself away, extricate himself from this... mess. To just stop _lying_.

But he couldn't. As much as it hurt sometimes, he would rather live this suffocating half-life _with_ Oliver than walk away from him, from that warm smile and those kind eyes and a soul spun from pure sunlight, if only it could allow itself to shine.

Sometimes when he hid behind that closed door, huddled with Oliver in their warm cocoon, he felt the biting sting of guilt crawling up his spine, laying waste to his nerves, as if he were somehow letting down an entire community of people who were counting on him to be open, honest. But he couldn't bear the thought of the alternative, of letting down _Oliver_.

And he knew, he understood, that Oliver's struggles were deep-seated, more strenuous than his own. It was completely forgivable if he couldn't spare the time to wonder if he were letting down Kyle in any way.

How could he _possibly_ blame Oliver for inaction and dishonesty when he himself practiced them almost every morning in his deceitful sleep-feigned observations?

His only form of recourse, distracting him from the oncoming dread of what Oliver would choose to do or not do, and the guilt from his own deceptions, was to classify Oliver's potential morning decisions into four categories:

**1.** Oliver leaves without looking back: _The worst._

**2.** Oliver looks back, regret coloring his face, and leaves anyway: _Almost as bad._

**3.** Oliver hesitates at the door for a few minutes, running his fingers slowly along the door jamb, contemplating _something_... and then leaves: _The slowest torture._

**4.** Oliver hesitates at the door, contemplates, slowly crawls back into bed: _Rare._

In that last instance, Kyle would close his eyes tight and breathe out his held breath as quietly as possible, then pretend to shift in his sleep, rolling toward the newly returned Oliver in order to nestle his head sleepily into Oliver's chest, taking in the scent of him, trying to train him to stay with comfort and love.

It didn't seem to take. Oliver was harder to train than a dog with attention deficit disorder, more stubborn, and more impossible to predict.

And then, one morning, the paradigm shifted.

Oliver, perched on the foot of the bed, laced up his sneakers. His fingers worked energetically as his foot waggled from side to side. Kyle supposed, with a heavy breath, that he was anxious to flee the room as quickly as possible. He knew it was a big weekend for Oliver.

As the disappointment settled over his heart, Kyle prepared himself to chalk up another point for #1, which had taken a commanding lead over the years.

And that's when Oliver surprised him.

He walked toward Kyle's side of the small bed and knelt in front of him. Kyle quickly shut his cracked-open eye so as not to reveal his longstanding secret.

He felt Oliver's hand in his hair, running along the back of his head behind his ear and up again.

"Hey there, sleepy. Wake up."

Despite his surprise, Kyle was well-practiced enough to feign grogginess.

"Mornin'."

Oliver smiled. "Good morning."

"You're up early."

The hand still rested on Kyle's head, the thumb gently stroking the back of his ear, and Kyle didn't want it to ever leave his skin.

"Yeah," Oliver said. "I've gotta take care of some things."

"And then you'll come back?" It was too much to hope, but he couldn't help but put the thought in Oliver's mind. He wasn't above guilt-trips to get what he wanted. "It's so cold without you," he pouted.

The hand moved from behind his ear and rested on his cheek.

"I have a better idea." Oliver's eyes twinkled. "Why don't you come find me? In about an hour?"

Kyle nodded his head, and yawned for good measure. He couldn't quite quit the ruse, even when, with each passing moment, it seemed more and more obsolete. His heart pounded against his ribs like a wild, trapped bird in a cage of bone. Things were... different. Things were changing. He could feel it in the lightness of the air surrounding them.

"I'll be there," he managed to say, with only the slightest tremble in his voice.

"Good. You know you're still my good luck charm before a game." Oliver leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. "Love you. Gotta go." The door closed softly behind him.

Kyle's face tingled, warmth trickling from the spot where Oliver's lips had caressed his skin down his temples, his cheeks, waking his cells one by one until his entire face hummed with delight.

As he stretched his arms over his head, he could still feel the soft whisper of phantom lips on his forehead. It was strange—an overreaction, for sure, as Oliver's lips had done far more to him last night, in all their previous nights together. Yet he couldn't help but give in to this foreign feeling, this self-indulgence. He was basking in innocent pleasure.

He would have to add a new category to the list. He didn't know why, but he was sure that #5 was going to take the others by storm soon enough.

He closed his eyes. In a dreamlike daze, he could feel himself floating toward that heavy, closed door that locked them in their secrecy. It shook, as if it were about to burst open, cascading their room in sunlight, a cleansing breeze ready to embrace the walls. The fear and the confusion and the lies would be swept away like ash and dust that had been sitting stale for far too long.

He stopped his imagination from whirling too far out of control. It was one morning, one kiss of many that had come before it. A tiny step forward, not a strident march down gay pride parade.

And that was okay. It was enough—more than enough.

Maybe it wasn't about throwing open the door in one massive push. They could inch it open, bit by bit, taking their time to introduce themselves to the world, together. It was a good, solid plan. It couldn't fail.

Kyle smiled to himself, every movement of his body weightless as he dressed. He picked up a book from the bedside table and waited, this time with purpose, with hope, the chains of self-torture cast aside forever. So he waited, while he supposed Oliver was busy shooing his visiting parents out of the frat and back to their hotel room.


End file.
